Saxon arrived in Cipres two days after Goth left the capital on one of the supply carts. It had been an extraordinarily long and frustrating journey for the Kloek as he tried to trace the steps of Pirate Quist. At Herek’s insistence, he had travelled to Caradoon with a small group of soldiers. The arrangement was not to Saxon’s liking, but once Herek knew that Goth still lived, naturally the Prime wished to do everything he could to bring the former Chief Inquisitor to justice.
Saxon and the King’s Guard had found the stracca den abandoned. Saxon had expected as much; these people would have heard of the military’s approach—no matter how small the party—long before the soldiers had hit the villages which considered themselves neighbours of Caradoon.
When Saxon had finally rid himself of the company of soldiers, sending them on their way to take news
back to Herek, he too had hit on the notion of asking for information at the brothel. Unlike Tor, however, Saxon had been shunned by its owner. He was not even granted an audience. The Caradoons were suspicious by nature and news of a Kloek asking questions of one of their own was bound to provoke jaws to clamp shut. Saxon felt helpless. It had been several weeks now since Cloot’s capture; the first qualms of this being a desperately hopeless chase began to niggle.
His distress must have been written all over his face when his request for a brief meeting with the madam was turned down for the second time for a young and gregarious member of the establishment took pity on him.
‘Why so sad, Kloek?’ she said, a tray of glasses balanced expertly on her well-rounded hip.
Saxon looked at her. Pert and pretty, she was. He was exhausted and it had been such a long time since he had lain with a woman. It was tempting.
‘Cat got your tongue, eh?’ the girl said, putting the tray down. ‘Nobody is allowed to look forlorn here, Kloek. Do you have a name? Mine is Celya.’
‘Saxon,’ he said, before draining his mug. ‘Time to go.’
She nodded. ‘I’m sorry that she won’t see you, Saxon.’
‘I don’t understand why. I only want to ask about one of the captains who may pass through here.’
‘Yes, I know. I gather no one has bothered to inform you though that the man you seek is Madame Eryna’s husband.’
Saxon was surprised. ‘I see. Then her reluctance makes sense,’ he said, scratching at his beard and feeling as though he had been kicked in the guts.
‘You could use a bath, a shave and a good night’s rest; all of which is available upstairs.’ She picked up the tray again. ‘Forget Quist. He and his wife own this place. You’ll get no information here. That last fellow, a few weeks back, he got the same answer.’
So, someone else was chasing the pirate. That figured, Saxon thought. ‘Which fellow?’
‘Petersyn or something. A beautiful man. Made all the girls’ hearts race in here. Each of us hoped he would pass the night with us. Tall, dark and those blue eyes. Light! What I’d give to roll between the sheets entwined in those arms.’ She grinned wickedly. ‘He got no answers about Quist, but I’ll tell you this, Saxon. He was on a ship bound for Cipres the next morning. I know because I was delivering something to the docks and saw him aboard
The Wasp
. Good night, Kloek.’ She winked.
Saxon wanted to kiss her. In her own clever way she had told him where to head next. Cipres! Who was the man she spoke of, he wondered. It probably did not matter to his quest, though he smiled wistfully. Her description had sounded like Tor Gynt. If only.
Saxon had gone directly to the docks only to learn that it was highly unlikely any more ships would be making the crossing now until Newleaf. Stumped yet determined, he had visited the inn at the docks and asked as many captains as he could find the same question: ‘How much to take me to Cipres?’
Each time he was met by laughter or derisive comments. The season was over. The men had finished their business for the year and the docks would become a ghostly place for the next few months.
Towards midnight, the innkeeper had suggested he try a wizened old sailor slumped over his ale in a smoky corner. ‘That silly old bastard Fawks has lost all his money again at hari. Wagered everything. He may make one last voyage. He’s got nothing more to lose except his life or his creaky old ship and neither of those are worth much these days. Give him a go.’
Saxon had approached Fawks, plied him with liquor stronger than ale and extracted a promise that they would sail the next afternoon, come what may. Saxon refused to pay a single duke until they were seabound and then he had promised just about everything in his purse. It was all he owned but it was worth it. He would die searching for Cloot if that’s what it took. He could not live as a soldier any longer. That was not his life. He was Paladin. He had a destiny and finding Cloot was part of it.
They had departed the next afternoon on a vessel that even Saxon, with his positive outlook, found difficult to imagine would last longer than one day at sea. But lasted it had. The weather had been surprisingly generous to them and with a small crew, scant provisions and only just enough fresh water to last them the voyage, the rickety ship had safely dropped anchor at the Ciprean docks.
Saxon thanked the gods who looked after him and paid the grinning Fawks everything but a few coins
which he held back for a single good meal and a bed for the night. He felt incredibly uplifted as he began wandering the docks, until he learned the news that
The Wasp
had sunk without trace on its last voyage. His hope of following the lead of the stranger, whom he had nicknamed Gynt even though Celya had called him Petersyn, was dashed. But gradually he rallied. So be it. He was not following the stranger. He was chasing Quist. And Quist was not the one lying at the bottom of the ocean feeding the fish.
He began to ask questions. People here were not so suspicious. Travellers from many Kingdoms passed through Cipres. Strangers were commonplace. Answers did not carry a price. His spirits revived on learning that Quist frequented a particular inn and he immediately made his way there, hardly noticing the beautiful city around him, so intent was he on this mission.
He paid for a tiny room overnight and enjoyed a decent meal. The girl who served him the meal knew Quist but said he had already left for the mainland. His spirits sank again. He had missed him. That was it. It was over.
‘He never stays long, our Captain Quist. Sells his goods and leaves immediately,’ she said, putting his cheese down. She left.
Sells his goods and leaves, Saxon repeated in his head. He did not need Quist any more. He had a score to settle with him, yes, but that could wait. If he had sold his goods, that meant Cloot might still be found in Cipres.
‘Wait,’ he called out to the girl. He flipped her his last coin. ‘Where would someone sell a bird of prey here?’
‘At the market,’ she said, pocketing the coin in her apron. ‘The market has everything, including slaves. Quist would have sold his wares there.’
This tidy piece of information and his subsequent snooping had led Saxon to the conclusion that a falcon as fine as Cloot would almost certainly have been purchased for the royal aviaries. Which was why he found himself standing in the main courtyard of Queen Sylven’s palace, wanting to put his fist into the face of one of her lowliest staff members.
‘I’m sorry, Master Fox, but the main aviaries are not located here. They are all at the winter palace in Neame.’
He had already said this once and Saxon was tiring of learning the same information and facing the same polite but meaningless smile.
Saxon battled to keep his voice calm. ‘I realise this because you have already informed me of it. Tell me, are you hiring any staff at the moment?’
‘No, Master Fox. The Queen is now residing at the winter palace in the foothills and we will be winding down the household here until Newleaf.’ He smiled again.
Saxon’s fist twitched. ‘What about help for the winter palace? Could you use a strong pair of hands at Neame?’
‘Ah, well now, you would have to speak with our staff organiser, Jayklon. Thank you for your enquiry,
Master Fox. Now, if you wouldn’t mind going around to the servants entrance—one of the guards will direct you—I have a busy morning ahead. Good day to you.’
Saxon snarled at the man’s retreating back. He got his directions and made his way to the servants entrance, where a queue of people waited, all apparently seeking work at either of the palaces. It took most of the day to shuffle forward to the front of the queue and by the time Saxon’s turn came around, any lightness of heart had dissipated and a black mood had descended on him. He decided to lie.
‘Right now, Master Fox.’ The tired interviewer rubbed at his eyes. ‘And what are you offering us today?’
‘I am from Tallinor.’
‘Of little relevance, I’m afraid,’ said the wobbling fellow, whose many chins suggested he was probably quite hungry by now for a large meal.
‘From the palace at Tallinor,’ Saxon continued.
‘Oh? Well, good. This is promising. And what did you do at the palace of Tallinor?’ Fat Belly enquired, still rubbing his eyes.
‘I was the head handler of falcons.’
‘My word. What brings you here?’ He had the man’s attention now.
‘This and that. I had a falling out. Water under the bridge. Right now, I seek work in your Queen’s aviaries. I don’t expect to be a senior member. I’ll muck out cages if required. An honest day’s work is all I ask, Master Jayklon, and in return you can rely
on me to take exceptional care of the birds. I prefer them to people actually. And I am very experienced.’
‘I see,’ said Jayklon, sitting up and scribbling furiously onto some parchment. ‘Right, there’s some staff leaving tomorrow for the winter palace. Present this to a fellow called Hume and he’ll sort you out the other end. Hungry?’
Saxon nodded.
‘Well, give this to the kitchens and they’ll provide you with a meal for today.’
Jayklon handed him a pebble with a mark on it. Saxon looked at it in his palm, his face expressionless.
‘It’s a token, Master Fox. It authorises the kitchens to feed you as one of the palace staff. You will be paid two dukes a day and all meals and lodging provided. You leave tomorrow morning at first light. Thank you. Next.’
Tor had kept his peace throughout the journey. It would not do to rush Sylven. As they rounded the curve in the hills and set sight on the beautiful soft grey stone of the winter palace, however, he felt impatient. Somehow he knew Cloot would be here.
Sylven was saying something about the surrounding countryside but he paid no attention. He cast. There, it was happening again, just like it had with Alyssa. There was a slight give to the dense nothingness he usually encountered when attempting to reach Cloot.
Yesterday when he had tried, the resistance had felt softer. Now, in Neame, literally at the doorstep of the aviaries, the resistance felt softer still.
‘…don’t you think?’ Sylven said.
‘Pardon me, your majesty?’
‘You haven’t paid attention to a word I’ve just said. I am not used to this, Tor.’ But she was smiling. ‘Thinking of your falcon, I suppose?’
‘I am, yes,’ he admitted.
‘Won’t you tell me why he is so important to you?’
‘I’m not sure you could believe it, Queen Sylven.’
She shook her head and pulled her veil down over her face. ‘I shall hear your story yet, Torkyn Gynt. But for now, welcome to my winter palace.’ The carriages pulled to a stop. ‘Ah, I do love it here,’ she said, leaning from the window and breathing in the cool air.
‘The fires are lit and Belsyn awaits, your majesty,’ the faithful Hela said as she helped her Queen step out.
‘Thank you, Hela. Isn’t it good to be back?’
Waiting at the palace gate was a short, roundish man with a genial face. He was rubbing his hands in front of him. He bowed low and with genuine honour for the Queen. ‘Welcome back, your majesty.’
‘Belsyn,’ Sylven said, waiting for him to stand upright again. ‘It is so good to see you again.’
‘Everything is ready for your majesty, just as you like it. And we welcome your special guest too.’ He bowed to Tor who was standing behind her.
‘Come, Tor,’ Sylven said. ‘Let me show you my favourite playground.’
Just then a squeal was heard and a girl came running towards Sylven. Laughing, the Queen clapped her hands and hugged the child.
She looked at Tor. ‘My greatest love of all. This is Sarel.’
He bowed to the child who would become the next Queen of Cipres.
Tor showed extraordinary patience during the next couple of days, amusing the Queen and pretending to be thoroughly fascinated by all she showed him. If it were not for the powerful feeling that Cloot was at Neame, he might really have enjoyed himself. The palace was a simple but very pretty structure, with Sylven’s signature gardens surrounding it. Nestled in a breathtakingly beautiful valley, it was protected on all sides from the worst of the winter elements. Even in his distraction, he knew he was in an idyllic place.
Several days had passed since their arrival and Tor was anxious to search for Cloot. This restless night, he found himself standing at the window of Sylven’s bedchamber, staring into the darkness towards the hills. He glanced over at Sylven, who was sleeping peacefully after a night of indulgence. Ryk’s incredible feast followed by several helpings of Tor’s body had finally sated her. He smiled. If he could only allow himself to relax, life could be very peaceful and happy for him here with Sylven. He knew she was in love with him; it was clear from the way her eyes
followed him all the time. Her passion was fuelled by a need to be loved by him in return, but Tor knew that could never be. As long as Alyssa was alive and he had breath in his body, his heart belonged to her. He could never stop loving her or wanting her. Sex was different. He loved to please women and take his pleasure in return, but it was not love. He had discovered true love on the day of the Floral Dance at Minstead Green and rediscovered it at his reunion with Alyssa in the archive library at Caremboche. He had been consumed by love in the Heartwood for nine glorious cycles of the moon. And just before his body died from the executioner’s stones, he had seen love returned from that balcony where she stood. There could be no one else for either of them. He knew she would never love another.